A Question of The Heart
by ahming
Summary: One night while Don is in the lab, Mikey finds his way in and asks him a question. Don POV. I think it's sweet. Don/Mike brotherly moment. I suck at summaries, but it really is cute. READ, NOW!


"Don?"

I pry my eyes away from the computer screen littered with web pages and word documents long enough to catch sight of my younger brother, Michelangelo. He's standing in the doorway, his eyes cast down shyly, one arm stroking the other. To the untrained eye, the body language he was displaying would suggest 'I broke something', but to me, I can clearly see that he is flustered about something. Often times Mikey lets little things get to him, and he overanalyzes them far too much, usually resulting in some form of an anxiety attack, poor guy. I'm glad he comes to me, though; I can usually put a stop to any issue that is pestering him (unless said issue is a very irritable Raphael. That's Leo's job).

A wry smile creeps along my face and I push back from the computer desk, swiveling my chair to face him.

"Yes, Mikey?" I should be irritated, but I'm not. Over the years I've learned that showing any hostility towards Mikey just results in a very moody younger brother. It's best to approach these situations with poise and rationality.

He is obviously distressed, and I wonder if he's already taken this question up with one of our other brothers. Raphael, I assume, because of the way his eyes won't meet mine, as if he's terrified of what I'll say/do to him.

There is a long pause. I can picture Raphael raising his eye ridges and shrugging his shoulders dramatically, his eyes wide, demanding Mikey spit it out right this instant.

I just sit and wait.

"Do you ever... think about our mom?" I can see the embarrassment flash in his eyes when I don't react immediately.

I blink, and consider this.

To be completely honest, I often do find myself wondering about our mother. Or mothers, actually, since technically none of us know if we're even related (being pet shop turtles and such)— aside from Raphael and Leonardo. Any clod could clearly see that those two were brothers.

Even if we aren't related by blood, I doubt that would change anything. And honestly, I think we all would rather continue to go on unaware. No matter what some DNA test says (It is true that I have the capability to induce said test among my brother, but I so choose not to), we will remain brothers. We are four mutated turtles, we are four chances, four accidents, four mistakes, freaks, wonders, however you decide to look at us. All we have is each other, and nothing will ever change that.

Generally it is something we do not discuss, although I'm sure each of us have pondered it many a night when sleep would refuse to invade our wary minds.

Master Splinter is our Father, the only parental figure we've ever known, and blood related or not, he is the only Father we will ever have. Even growing up we could tell he was different from us, but we never really questioned it. To us, it was completely normal to have a giant, fury, mutated mammal without a shell for a Father.

I sit back into my chair and ponder for a few moments.

Scientists are sure that animals dream, although I often wonder if they dream in color, and with sound. If you take a dog raised it's entire life in Japan, and try to command it in English, will it obey? Our Mother/s were/was a normal turtle, with a brain the size of a marble. She was probably raised in captivity, in a turtle-farm of some sort, I assume. She did what she knew her entire life, ate, slept, mated, and had eggs. Probably no emotional attachment involved, as after the eggs are laid she retreats back to the ocean.

Some scientists argue that animals are capable of feeling and more... distinctive mental capacity, although I'm not sure what I believe. My brothers and I, yes, we are capable of emotion and intelligent thought, but I assume it's only because of the TCRI ooze that contaminated us. I can't remember anything from before that. I'm sure my brothers don't remember anything, either, although I've never asked them. It isn't a well-guarded secret in our family, but we never really talk much about it.

I suddenly realize how long I've been quiet, locked away in my own mind. I sit up and nod a bit, thankful to find Mikey still in the doorway. Usually when my brain lapses like that, it's for about 20 to 30 minutes.

"I do," I finally reply.

Mike looks like he's been holding his breath. I see a thankful smile form on his face and his chest deflate.

"Why?" I ask, studying him.

He pauses again, his eyes scanning the floor thoughtfully, his face contorted in deep thought.

"Do... you think she misses us?"

I arch an eye ridge, actually taken aback a bit at such a melancholy question. Surely Michelangelo realizes that I do not know the answer to his question— even I cannot find an answer for everything. I've explained to him countless times how the mating and egg-laying rituals work, and anything he's managed to miss during my presentations must have been soaked up from the countless hours I made him watch on the Discovery Channel and such. But I can see the childish glint behind his large, sad blue eyes, and I know he knows the answer. But he needs comfort; he needs to be lied to.

I find myself wondering how long this question has plagued my younger brother, and for an instant I almost feel a little guilty.

I reflect for a moment, recalling facts about our type of turtle, RES. We are very sociable, and our personalities often develop and differ from others. That would explain quite a bit, I think to myself, turning my attention once more to Mikey.

Every intelligent fiber in my body is screaming at me to sigh obnoxiously and doll out another well-researched lecture on the habits of turtles, but I find myself digressing. Something inside of me won't allow me to mar my younger brother; something inside me needs to see his face light up like a Christmas tree again.

"I'm sure she does, Mikey." I somehow manage between clenched teeth, trying my hardest to ignore the constant nagging of common sense centered squarely between my aching shoulders. I feel far too old all of the sudden.

It isn't that I'm annoyed with him, no, although I am a little sad he continues to torture himself with these questions. Questions that will always remain unanswered. I simply push said questions out of my mind. True, I have an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, but even I know my minds limitations. I see no point in dwelling on things that cannot be answered.

I see him smile again and I smile back. It's unnervingly quiet for what seems like ages, but that's okay, because I can tell his mind is processing everything.

"Think I'm her favorite?" He asks suddenly, and then quickly adds, "'Cause, ya know, I'm Master Splinter's favorite, n' everything."

I'm searching his face for a hint of sarcasm, and there, behind those wide blue eyes I find it. I first cock one brow, lower it, then the other, debating on making a witty quip or not. I decide against it, and just shrug a single shoulder.

"Well, you are the most sociable out of the four of us, I suppose." He doesn't look at all pleased with this answer, so I quickly add, "—I'm sure she'd love you."

"Thanks, Don." He says, his voice barely a whisper.

I simply nod, crossing my arms over my plastron, the smile unwavering.

He glances around awkwardly and then shuffles out of my lab, leaving me alone once again. This time though, I feel rather lonely, for whatever the reason.

I guess I can't ignore my primal instincts, even as highly advanced as I am.

I sigh tap the 'off' button on the monitor and make my way out of my lab, debating on suggesting that we all partake in a rousing game of checkers. I pause, and then rethink that move, remembering how the last checkers game board had met with an unfortunate accident after a very sore-loser-of-a-turtle Raphael snapped it in half over my shell. Maybe a movie would be better. Yes, a movie, with explosions. Lots and lots of explosions.


End file.
